Matilda's Drabble Thread II (Sherlock)

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Deleted John sneezing?? Not something I could ever do.

[matilda3948]

Thank you all for the kind words

This is a continuation of the sick John drabble. Might do another one after this. Who knows?

As predicted, Sherlock strutted triumphantly into the flat that evening with a bag of Thai food in each arm.

“John, we’re celebrating. I was even more brilliant than usual. Those morons at the Yard—” Sherlock stopped short when he saw John was sprawled out on the sofa snoring softly. The consulting detective frowned. What good was being a genius if John wasn’t coherent enough to praise him? Sherlock put the food in the kitchen before assessing his friend. John was still wearing his jacket and was shivering despite being under two blankets. There was a box of tissues on the floor and John had a couple still clutched in his hand. Sherlock didn’t need to touch him to know John was running a pretty high fever—the flush on his cheekbones and the sheen on his forehead were telling enough.

“John? John, wake up.”

It took a moment for the doctor’s eyes to slowly drift open. He winced and groaned. He tried to ask a question but his voice caught in his throat and he quickly brought a hand up to muffle the gravely cough.

“Have you taken anything?” Sherlock asked once the coughing died down. John shook his head.

“Came home and went right to sleep,” he said. Sherlock nodded and went into the kitchen. First he filled a large glass with water, then grabbed the bottle of Tylenol from the cupboard. John looked like it was taking everything he had to sit upright on the sofa. His hands were shaking as he took the pills—shaking so hard in fact that Sherlock was a little unsure about handing him the glass. John nodded that he was okay and swallowed the medicine, but he was glad when Sherlock took the cup away as soon as he was done. John’s hands weren’t empty for long though; Sherlock placed a generous handful of tissues against John’s upturned palms just as his breathing began to grow shallow.

huh hh-hahh huhihhNDSCHHooo! hhGNDsschh!

“Bless you.”

“Thahhuhh…ugh. Thag you.” John did his best to blow his nose even though the congestion seemed to be thoroughly settled in his head.

“This came on fast,” Sherlock said. “Likely flu.”

“Probably,” John sighed. “Think I might have a fever.”

“I’d estimate you’re closing in on 39 degrees.”

huh—hhAhhNGschhhoo!

John’s body shuddered with another strong sneeze. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. He was surprised when Sherlock crouched down next to him and placed a hand on the back of his neck.

“John, you’re too warm. You need to be in bed,” he said quietly.

“I’m freezing,” John mumbled.

“When the body’s core temperature is higher than usual, the cooler ambient temperature often simulates the feeling of—”

“I know. I am a doctor.”

“Then why did you—”

huhihhNDSCHHooo! hhGNDsschh!

“Sneezing is a poor way to avoid losing an argument,” Sherlock said, standing. He waited while John wiped his nose and cleared his throat. With a sigh, John stood up and swayed as the room began to spin. Just as he felt the darkness crowding out his vision, Sherlock looped an arm around his waist and kept him on his feet. “Easy, John. Come on. I’m not carrying you, so find your sea legs.” They stood there for a moment, Sherlock absorbing most of John’s weight until the dizziness passed and John nodded that he was okay to start walking. It seemed to take forever just to make it to the hallway. John looked at the stairs leading up to his bedroom with dread—it might as well have Mount Everest for all the energy he had. “My room,” Sherlock said, tugging John towards his bedroom door. He obviously wasn’t keen on trying to get John up all of those stairs either. John dropped down on the bed with a jagged cough. “Don’t go to sleep yet,” Sherlock said.

While John seemed determined to cough up a lung, Sherlock went upstairs to get a couple things from his room: pajamas, the old jumper he always wore when he was ill, and the quilt off his bed. On his way back to his room, he grabbed a new box of tissues and a washcloth from the linen closet. When he got back to his bedroom he found John fighting sleep with everything he had.

“Don’t go to sleep yet,” Sherlock repeated. He tossed John his pajamas and went into the adjoining bathroom, giving John a moment to change as he filled a bowl with cool water. When he came back he found John changed, sitting on the edge of the bed and struggling to get tissues from the box as he geared up for another round of punishing sneezes. He was forced to cup his hands over his nose and mouth as the first two came tumbling out of his nose one on top of the other.

huhAHHgnschh! Ntschhhoo!

Sherlock pulled three tissues from the box, folded them in half and held them out to John.

“Thaahh thahhihh ahhNGTsschh! hhNDSCHHoo! Thaahh thag—huhihhGNSCHHoo!” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Manners can wait until you’re done sneezing your head off,” he said.

hhuhh…ahh HuhNGKTschhh! hhdtSSCHHoo!

John groaned and rubbed his throat. Those last few sneezes hurt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this bad. His muscles ached, he was lightheaded, and he was so congested he felt like his sinuses were going to burst.

“John? Come on, lay down.” Sherlock’s low voice cut through John’s thoughts and he shook his head slightly.

“Yeah. Thags, Sherlock.” He eased himself down into the bed with a sigh and drew the blanket up to his chin. Sherlock spread the extra quilt over top of John and then rolled up his shirt sleeves before dipping the washcloth into the water and wringing it out. He sat down on the edge of the bed and placed the damp cloth on John’s forehead. John bit back a whimper as a violent shiver tore through his body.

“Deal with it. You know your fever is too high,” Sherlock said, though his voice was as close to sympathetic as he’d allow. He rewet the cloth and blotted each side of John’s face before laying the cloth across his forehead again.

“M’cold,” John whispered.

“Yes, well, like most people you don’t have enough brain cells to afford letting half of them be cooked while your body fights whatever god-awful virus you managed to catch.”

John managed to open his eyes, glanced up at Sherlock and gave him an exhausted, lopsided smile.

"Thanks for that," he said with a yawn.

[stargazer]

Aw...John sounds so miserable. Glad Sherlock is actually taking care of him.

[Zuki]

This is so cute! I love caretaking!Sherlock and poor poor John I definitely hope you continue with this!

[cally]

Oh poor, poor John.

[ID2006]

So so so in love with this

[sapphiremint]

AHHH <3 I love sick!John and caring!Sherlock so much. I really hope you continue this

[matilda3948]

Thank you all!!

Apparently, this wanted to turn into an angsty, post TEH story, with no Mary. Who am I to argue? I think there may be another section in my brain too. I don't know. Just go where the muse take me

John managed to open his eyes, glanced up at Sherlock and gave him an exhausted, lopsided smile.

Sherlock was sitting in a chair with his feet propped up on the foot of the bed. He was reading a journal article on poisons not usually found in a toxicology report, but his eyes flicked up to John’s face every few minutes or so. The doctor was snoring and looked miserable even in his sleep—restless and feverish. He turned over and coughed. Sherlock watched to see if he was going to wake up. John’s head tossed from side and he made an odd, choked noise. After marking his page, Sherlock stood and put a hand on John’s forehead—he was burning up and appeared to be having a nightmare.

“John, wake up,” he said. “John? Wake up!”

John’s eyes shot open and he gasped. His breath caught in his throat and he coughed until his eyes watered. Sherlock stood awkwardly by the side of the bed until the spasms eased. John ran a shaky hand over his face and sighed. When he looked up and saw Sherlock standing there, his face crumpled.

“Why are you here?” he wheezed.

“You’re ill—quite ill, actually. I’ve been sitting here in case you need anything.”

“No. I mean why am I seeing you again?”

“I don’t underst—”

“You’re dead!”

Sherlock stood openmouthed. John was shaking.

“You have to stop, Sherlock. I’m begging you. I’ll go mad if I keep dreaming about you, seeing you on street corners. Maybe I’ve already gone mad,” he sighed. “Sitting here talking to a hallucination.”

“John, I am not a hallucination.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed when a tear ran down John’s face.

“I’m losing my mind,” John said. “Thought it was better but I’m—” he stopped abruptly and sneezed.

huhihhGNSCHHoo!

“You could at least cover your mouth,” Sherlock said, grabbing a couple tissues from the box and waving them in John’s face.

“You’re a hallucination, or a dream, or ghost. You can’t catch—”

“John, listen to me.” Sherlock gripped John by the shoulders. “I am real. I promise you. You have a high fever and you’re not thinking clearly. Now I need you to get up and come get in the bathtub so you can cool down.” He could tell that John still wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t give him much choice. Sherlock flung the blankets back and looped his arm around John’s waist, hauling him to his feet. They stumbled towards the ensuite and Sherlock sat John down on the side of the tub before reaching over and turning the water on, adjusting it so it was lukewarm. As he waited for the tub to fill, he turned to John and began to undress him. He was reaching for the waist of John’s pajama pants when the doctor pulled away. Sherlock was just about to begin his lecture on how the human body was nothing to be ashamed of, particularly when undergoing a necessary task to break a dangerously high fever, when he realized the real cause of John’s discomfort. He just managed to tear off a generous handful of bathroom tissue and get it into his friend’s hands.

ahhNGTsschh! hhNDSCHHoo!

“Bless you,” Sherlock said quietly.

huhAHHgnschh! Ntschhhoo!

“And again.”

John didn’t respond except to blow his nose. He looked up, confusion written all over his face.

“We’re here so you can take a bath and get your fever down,” Sherlock said in answer to the unasked question. He quickly finished undressing John and helped ease him down into the water. It was as though all his strength had evaporated in the last 24 hours; he could hardly stand without help. The water felt cold compared to his hot skin. It felt even worse when Sherlock soaked a wash and wrung it out over John’s chest. He repeated the process several times as John shook with chills. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?” Sherlock asked.

“Hmm?” John’s head lolled to one side. Sherlock wrung the cloth out, spilling water down John’s shoulder and back. He tried a different method.

“Doctor Watson. When does a patient with influenza need to be admitted to the hospital?”

“What patient?”

“Just any…my patient. How do I know when my patient needs to be admitted? Doctor?”

“40 degrees or higher for heh ahh…for two hours or more.”

Hehh huhihhNDSCHHooo! hhGNDsschh!

“Bless you.” John groaned. “Can you manage to not drown for a moment while I get the thermometer?” Sherlock asked. He took the unintelligible mumble to be a yes and quickly went back to grab it off the bedside table. John had his knees drawn up to his chest and was coughing a deep, throaty cough that made Sherlock feel something akin to sympathy. He even waited until the fit eased before placing the tympanic thermometer in John’s ear. “39.8,” he said even though he doubted John cared or even realized what was going on. He stayed curled in on himself, resting his head on his knees as Sherlock kept pouring water over his shoulders and back. It was silent except for John’s sniffles and occasional cough. Sherlock’s mind had started to wander back over the last half hour, replaying the conversation with John. Tonight clearly wasn’t the first time John had imagined or dreamt of Sherlock and he had seemed genuinely concerned he was losing his mind. What had happened in the years he was gone? Had John really come that close to the edge or was it the illness talking?

“Sherlock?”

The detective glanced down and saw John looking up at him.

“Good idea to be in the mind palace while I’m sitting here ill and naked?”

“I take it your fever’s down.”

John held out his hand and took the thermometer, though the mere fact that he was coherent again indicated that his temperature was out of the danger zone.

“38.8,” he said. Sherlock nodded and stood up before grabbing a large towel of the counter. He didn’t ask John if he needed help. Rather, he extended his hand for John to take or not depending on how steady he was on his feet. The doctor seemed alright standing and wrapping the towel around his waist, but actually stepping over the side of the tub seemed to be more problematic as his legs each felt like they weighed a ton. He took Sherlock’s hand for balance and slowly put one foot, then the other, onto the bathmat. “Thanks,” John said. He was feeling enough better to be embarrassed and assured Sherlock he could manage to dress by himself.

“I’ll get you some water,” he said. “You need more fluids.”

By the time he came back to the kitchen, John was back in his pajamas and sitting on the side of the bed. He had a handful of tissues waiting several inches from his face, head tilted back, nostrils dilating as he sucked in little pre-sneeze gasps.

heh huh—hhehh…ehh hh hhuhh…ehh HuhNGKTschhh! hhdtSSCHHoo!

He kept the tissues clutched to his nose as he jerked forward with another round of wrenching sneezes.

hhihhSNGschhh! huhNDSCHHooo! huhh hhAHHNDTSCHHHooo!

“Bless you, John.”

“Thags.” John blew his nose before clearing his throat and taking the glass of water from Sherlock, taking small sips as his friend pushed two cold pills through their silver backing and held them out. John nodded and downed the pills before sliding back into bed and drawing the blankets up to his chin. This little middle of the night excursion had taken every last drop of energy he had. “M’sorry I took your bed,” he mumbled as Sherlock sat down in the chair again.

“It’s fine.”

“You can go sleep in mine,” John said.

“No.”

“You need sleep too.” John was fighting to keep his eyes open.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock tried to be as dismissive as possible, but the truth was there was no way he was leaving John’s side until his fever had broken. Seeing him delirious and frightened had made something inside Sherlock’s chest very tight and uncomfortable and the thought of leaving John made that sensation worsen. Instead he watched the steady rise and fall of John’s chest as he settled into sleep, his tight, congested snoring the only sound in the room.

[cally]

Poor John. He sounds so completely miserable that it hurt my heart to read it.

[Zuki]

Ow, my heart. This was so lovely and well written. Absolutely loved this last Drabble, will there be more of this?

[AngelEyes]

Poor John. I love the part where Sherlock snaps at DR WATSON to get a coherent answer. Brilliant. I can totally see it!

[matilda3948]

I know it's been months since I've posted anything. Just been in one of those phases where I haven't had many ideas. However, it's summer and I don't have much going on so I thought I'd write my favorite pairing that I almost-but-not-quite ship.

**

huhIshhh!

Molly looked up from her microscope.

“Bless you,” she said. Sherlock grunted and sniffled, adjusting the focus on his own microscope. They worked side by side for a few more minutes before Sherlock’s concentration was broken by another sneeze, much stronger than the first.

huhhIHHSHHH!

“Bless you again, Sherlock.”

“Couldn’t you do something more useful than observe social niceties?” he snapped. “Coffee or silence would be lovely—preferably both as quickly as possible.” Molly’s eyes widened slightly before she suddenly broke down in a fit of giggles.

“What is your problem? Had to be too nice at John and Mary’s wedding so now you have a surplus of nastiness?” He opened his mouth to respond but was forced to duck his head into the bend of his arm.

hhISHH!

This just made Molly laugh even harder. He glared at her and did her best to try and get herself under control.

“Are you catching a cold?” she finally managed to ask.

“I don’t get colds.” Her bottom lip trembled as she fought back her laughter. Sherlock continued to sniffle frequently, causing the bridge of his nose to scrunch up.

“Would you like a tissue?” she asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re sick and grumpy and a little sad about John getting married and you’re taking it out on me,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“I liked you more before you grew a backbone,” he mumbled, turning back to his work. She decided enough was enough and turned to go find him a box of tissues and a cup of coffee. Molly patted him on the shoulder.

“No you didn’t,” she said. The corners of his mouth twitched but he didn’t look up from his microscope.

*

Molly came into work early the next morning. She turned on all the lights and looked at her docket for the day. She had two autopsies and four toxicology reports—a full but not overwhelming day. After her first cup of coffee, Molly turned on some music and got to work. She was elbow deep in Mrs. Hunter’s abdomen, humming and swaying to the music when a sudden sound startled her.

huhIhhSHHoo!

Molly gasped and spun around to see Sherlock doubled over after sneezing into his hands.

“Sherlock Holmes! How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough for you to make it to sehh—huh second verse. hhIHHSHHoo!”

Now recovered from being surprised, Molly took a good look at Sherlock. She frowned, pulled a sheet over the late Mrs. Hunter, and took off her gloves. Sherlock had sunk down onto a lab stool and was beginning to spread out a number of microscope slides and petri dishes.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here today?” she asked.

“Obviously not drinking a cup of coffee,” he said, raising an eyebrow. Molly rolled her eyes.

“You’re clearly not well, Sherlock. Mrs. Hunter has more color in her face than you do and she’s been dead for 32 hours.”

“I’m fide.”

“You can’t properly pronounce the word, so no, you’re not.” Molly pressed a hand to his forehead and noted the way his eyes drifted for a moment, leaning into the touch slightly. She sighed and smoothed his hair back. “What’s going on, Sherlock? You’re not working on a case, so why drag yourself in here while you have such a bad head cold?” He shrugged. Molly smiled and shook her head. “You know I’m not as brilliant as you are, so I’m going to need a bit more information. Preferably words.” He tilted his head so he could look up at her. His eyes were glassy and his nose reddened around the edges. He looked absolutely exhausted.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. And Molly believed him.

“Sherlock, please go home and lay down,” she said.

“I don’t want to go home. I just came from home.”

“So you just want to sit here in my lab, feverish and miserable, contaminating everything you come into contact with?”

“And I’d like to do it with a cup of coffee,” he said.

It took Molly fifteen minutes to get some good cold medicine from one of her friends who worked with living patients, and a couple cups of strong coffee (she felt she’d be needing one herself). She nudged the door to the morgue open and was met with a rather pathetic looking Sherlock Holmes. His face was buried in a fistful of tissues, body shaking with a sneeze every few seconds.

huhihshhh!

“Bless you,” she said, putting his coffee down next to him.

hhIHHshhh!

“I brought you some cold medicine too. I’m assuming—”

huhISHHHoo!

“—you didn’t take any before you left Baker Street.”

hhihhSHHHoo!

“At least I hope you didn’t because if you did and you’re still sneezing this much—”

Ehh Heh huhISHHHOOO!

“Goodness, Sherlock! Bless you!”

He blew his nose and coughed into his fist.

“Okay?”

Sherlock nodded and downed the cold pills she’d brought him with a swallow of coffee. Black, two sugars as always. He took a couple deep breaths as if to test whether or not he was done sneezing. Molly almost revived the discussion about going home but decided otherwise. It was a fight she knew she wouldn’t win; for whatever reason, her lab was where he intended to camp out for the day. Instead she decided to get through her work as quickly as possible so she could drag Sherlock home herself.

“Do you need anything else before I get back to work?” she asked, pulling on fresh latex gloves. He shook his head.

“I have everything I need.”

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

“I have everything I need.”

Aw, baby! *pets*

I'm not usually a huge fan of Molly & Sherlock's relationship, especially in fetish fic, but I loved this. You really nailed so much: Sherlock's trouble living alone post-SoT, how Molly--and, by extension, Sherlock's relationship with her--has grown, and how little Sherlock wants to talk about any of his (ugh) feelings. All tied up with those beautiful, coldy sneezes as bows. Brava!

[stargazer]

I don't like this pairing at all, but I absolutely loved this drabble. Sherlock's sneezes made me melt.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

See, I kinda like Sherlolly. I definitely liked this fic. Loved Sherlock coming to Molly seeking comfort, even though he says he wants coffee.

[AngelEyes]

This fix is everything! I'd quote the best parts, but that would pretty much be all of it! Shelock's crankiness, Molly's newfound sassiness, Sherlock finding comfort in the lab and with her, Molly understanding his need, Molly carrying on the conversation as Sherlock keeps interrupting with sneezes. I love it. Brilliant!

[matilda3948]

Hi all. Sorry I haven't been in much of a writing mood lately but I have three new drabbles tonight. They're not related but each one is based on the idea of really terrible, rainy weather (because that's what it's been like where I live for over a week).

Prompt: Wool

Molly stomped into the morgue, her shoes squishing and squeaking along the floor as she went. She ignored Sherlock, who was already sitting in front of his microscope, and stormed into her office, peeling off layers of sopping wet clothing and piling them onto the floor. She wrung the water out of the cuffs of her pants and the hem of her sweater.

“Molly? Coffee!” Sherlock shouted.

That did it—pushed her right over the edge. She flung the door of her office open and glared at Sherlock.

“Get your own bloody coffee. I am not here to—”

“Why are you wet?” he asked.

“It’s pouring rain out there!”

“Yes. If only there was an object available that you could open up over your head to keep you from—”

“I have an umbrella,” she snapped. “The wind was blowing so hard that it flipped it inside out while I was still four blocks from the hospital. When I turned it right side up the fabric tore and I had to throw it out.” She grabbed a few paper towels and began squeezing the water out of her hair. “Then a cab sped through a huge puddle and splashed water all over me.” Molly shivered and sniffled. She quickly snatched a dry paper towel, bringing it to her nose. Ahhtschh! Ktschh! She continued her tirade, her makeshift tissue still pressed to her nose. “And then, to make things even better, both entrances to St. Barts were blocked by standing water so I ruined my shoes, I’m soaking wet and freezing cold. So no. I am not getting you coffee.”

Sherlock got up and left the morgue. Molly couldn’t care less. She was chilled to the bone and miserable and had no interest in coddling the great Sherlock Holmes. To add insult to injury, now her nose was running…and tickling. Molly rubbed her nose against the back of her hand and tried to quell the itch. Her breath hitched once, then twice before she lost the fight.

Ahh…Hahihh…ahhKSHHoo! Ktschoo!

“Bless you.”

Molly hadn’t heard Sherlock come back in. She turned around and was surprised to see him holding out a handkerchief. She sighed and took it.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Hmm. Here.” If she was surprised before, Molly was absolutely stunned when Sherlock handed her a hot cup of coffee. She wrapped her hands around it and felt her cold fingers begin to thaw out.

“M’sorry I yelled at you,” she said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“That hardly constitutes yelling, Molly.”

“Still sorry.” She took a sip of coffee but couldn’t hold back another shiver. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned down and he crossed over to the other side of the room and retrieved his long, wool jacket. He held it so Molly could slip her arms into it. He had to roll the sleeves up three times before she could stick her hands out properly.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” she said.

“If you get any corpse debris on it you’re responsible for the dry cleaning bill.”

Prompt: Handkerchief (for the Mystrade lovers )

Mycroft frowned as he overheard Greg’s side of the phone call.

“Yeah, Sally, I understand…it’s alright just give me about twenty minutes to pull myself together…text me hehuhh s’cuse me—huhAhhNDCHHeew! Ugh. Sorry Donovan. Send be the address and I’ll be there sood.” Mycroft emerged from his office to see Greg bury his nose in a handkerchief and dampen another sneeze. hhAHHsngtschhh!

“God bless you,” Mycroft said. “I certainly hope I wasn’t overhearing a conversation about you going into work today,” he said, crossing his arms. Greg sighed and ran a hand over his face.

“No choice. Double homicide on the east side of town.”

“Gregory, you’re supposed to be on sick leave the next two days, not out chasing murderers in some of the most terrible weather we’ve had all year.”

Lestrade shook his head; he knew he was going to have an argument on his hands. It was true—he’d had a terrible head cold that he couldn’t seem to shake and (at Mycroft’s insistence) had finally agreed to take a couple days off to get his health back on track. He wasn’t enthusiastic about leaving the comfort of the townhouse (not to mention his sweatpants and hoodie) for a frigid, damp crime scene.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

Mycroft uncrossed his arms and pressed a hand to Greg’s forehead. No fever.

“There’s no one else in all of Scotland Yard that can handle it?” Mycroft asked.

“Donovan said the other two teams are already working active huh…active case.” Greg’s face scrunched up and he raised his arm, sneezing into his elbow.

huhRuhhNFSCHH huhhAHHGNSHHoo!

“God bless you.” Mycroft frowned. He knew he was being a bit unreasonable. Of course Gregory had to go if there was no one else to supervise a new crime scene. “In answer to your earlier question, you are to dress warmly and spend as little time out in this rain as possible.”

huhRahhNDSHHooo!

“God bless you again. You might also call Sherlock in to consult. If it’s a cut and dry homicide he should have you home in time for dinner.”

“Thanks for that vote of confidence,” Greg said.

“I only meant that—”

“I know, love. I’ll text him in a few. I’m not eager to be outside in this mess either.”

Prompt: Rest

“Bored!” Sherlock shouted before breaking down into a coughing fit. John glanced up from his paper and rolled his eyes. “John?”

“Yeah. Heard you before. Bored. Terribly bored—unimaginably bored. Still can’t do anything about it.”

Sherlock flung himself into his chair, arms and legs flopping out in every direction. The rain continued to beat down on the roof of the house, as it had for the last three days. It wasn’t the persistent, pattering rain that London was known for, but driving relentless rain better suited to some tropical climate. Streets were flooding, the underground had been temporarily suspended. As a result, everyone was staying indoors—even the criminals it seemed. Suddenly, Sherlock pitched forward in his chair.

HehNtsch! hehIhtschh!

“Bless,” John said, looking up over his paper again. “You’re due for more cold medicine soon,” he said.

“I don’t need cold medicine,” Sherlock said, wiping his nose on his dressing gown sleeve. “I need work. John, I’m so—”

“Bored. Yes. I know.”

Sherlock scowled and curled up in his chair. John folded up his paper and looked at his friend.

“You know I can’t just summon a homicide,” he said.

“Doesn’t have to be a homicide,” Sherlock said with a wet sniffle. “Could be a kidnapping, armed robbery, I’d even settle for a carjacking at this point.”

“How generous of you,” John said.

“My head hurts,” Sherlock sighed, tilting his head back. “The boredom is turning my mind to mush.”

“Your head hurts because you’ve got a nasty cold,” John said. “Even if we had a case, there’s no way you should be doing anything except resting.”

“Like you could stop me,” Sherlock mumbled. John was about to respond when the world’s only consulting detective was overcome with a sneezing fit. His long, elegant nose twitched suddenly and his shoulders shook with the powerful, but quiet sneezes.

Hehntschh! NTschhoo! hhntschhoo!

“I feel pretty confident I could stop you when you're like this,” John said, snagging a box of tissues off the desk. He pulled several from the top and held them within Sherlock’s reach.

hhEhhtschh! hehNTSHH!

“Bless you, Sherlock.”

hehAhhtschheew!

John patted him on the shoulder and went into the kitchen. Sherlock blew his nose and yawned. He fished his mobile out of the pocket and began scrolling through and checking the weather. A crack of thunder confirmed what he was finding online. John put a cup of tea down on the side table next to Sherlock.

“Ugh! The rain’s not going to stop for at least two more days,” Sherlock moaned. He reached for his tea, but his hand paused midway and he went for the tissues instead.

Heh Ehh…hehSNSCHHew!

“Bless you. Yeah, two more days’ rest won’t kill you.”

[Zuki]

Aww, these are awesome! Poor cranky, bored, sherlock.

[Spoo]

Sick!Greg will always be a huge weakness of mine. I loved it!

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Wonderful drabbles! I loved cranky Molly and Sherlock actually being thoughtful. Yeah, new Mystrade! Thank you for the update.

[AngelEyes]

Awesomeness! The trifecta of characters! Love it!

[frolicking periwinkle]

Responding to the Sherlolly at the wedding drabble. 

This "It’s a sliding scale,” he said. Made me literally lol on the train.